The Villains' Club
by MelodyPond123
Summary: Multiverse Drabble Series... On weekends, the villains of the multiverse meet to unwind and relax at the height of debauchery...or is it? Can so many villains in one room go over too well? Badguys include: Crowley from Supernatural, Dr. Who's The Master, and Voldemort from Harry Potter, and more!
1. Chapter 1: Club Misanthropy

Crowley was slumped in his easy chair, grumbling inebriatedly at the TV screen as he flicked through channels, irritation at the lack of quality programming.

"Really? TV just keeps getting bloody worse every night, I swear. I'll have to do something about this. Maybe start my own network…HelliVision—" He mused aloud, but stopped as a commercial caught his interest.

"Here at the villains' club, we hold ourselves to the highest standard of debauchery and maliciousness—" The announcer declared.

"Oh, really?" He asked, turning up the volume a bit so he could hear over the demons in the next room.

" It's where all the self-respecting villains go on Friday nights. Bring your maniacal laughter, and go back to your lair with brilliantly nefarious new ideas to torment your underlings for the coming week! This month, held in the common house at the most happening spot in the multiverse, Club Misanthropy!"

"Misanthropy, eh?" Crowley nodded. "I like that name, very much…."

* * *

Three Friday nights later:

* * *

Crowley sat kicked back in the lounge chair, fingertips pressed to his temples. The commercial from a few weeks before had conveniently neglected to mention the terrible cacophony that passed for music around here. It was horrid even by Hell's standards, he decided, cringing as he tried to block out the incessant, maddeningly repetitive pounding of formless bass from the speakers behind him. It had been going on for a few minutes now, since he'd arrived, and was loud enough it made his glass of whiskey vibrate in time with the thrumming.

He took another swallow, his face contorting in annoyance as a particularly loud thump shook the room. He looked down moodily at his glass of Craig as if studying it would help calm his nerves. Instead, it only served to further his agitation, as he realized belatedly, a series of fine spiderweb cracks were forming in the glass.

"Bloody club," he muttered, reaching for a napkin on the arm of the lounge chair he was in, but too late—

As the bass hit a crescendo, the glass shattered in his fingers, whiskey and shards of glass landing on his lap.

"Fuck all," he spat the words, leaping from his seat in a tantrum of rage.

"Who thought it was a bloody good idea to leave_ him _in charge of the music this week?!" Crowley roared, grabbing the cord to the speakers and giving it an overzealous yank, so the plug pulled out of the socket in the wall.

He sighed, satisfaction written in his smile as the dull squeak of the speakers dying as the cacophony stopped.

"I did," said a cool voice from across the room as the music died, its owner turning slowly on his bar stool to reveal his grotesquely pallid features.

"Hey! I'll have you know, I worked very, _very _hard on this!" The Master protested angrily from where he sat in the DJ chair.

"Oh, hello, Voldy," Crowley said. "I intended no disrespect, but it's just that it's in terrible taste, you see," he continued, "The repetition of that same bit of noise, if one could even begin to call it music, over and over ad nauseum, why it's enough to drive any self-respecting villain mad."

"Don't you see, though? That's rather the point," The Master replied, regarding Crowley with an insulted gaze. "It's intended to be a study in torture. I thought the audience here, of all places, would appreciate it." He pouted immaturely as he finished speaking, crossing his arms over his chest as if the posture would help justify his utter lack of taste.

"Well, for the love of all things despicable, stop torturing _us_. We are the ones supposed to be exerting it, not subjected to it!" Crowley retaliated, his voice nearly squeaking with the incredulity he expressed at the ludicrousness of the Master's idea.


	2. Chapter 2: No Class

"I suppose the King of Hell has a point," Voldemort observed coolly from his bar stool. "Put something else on, Time Lord. Attempt to amuse me and the rest of our guests."

.

"Fine!" The Master pouted, making his most adorkable way, moving to shove the plug to the speakers back into the outlet. "I'll turn on something else…"

Crowley rolled his eyes, going to the bar where he nodded to the bartender, who wordlessly poured him another glass of Glenncraig.

Nursing his new glass of whiskey, he returned to his lounge seat to attempt to soothe his nerves.

"Don't stop! Believing! It goes on and on and—" The speakers now boomed as The Master thumbed the controls on the DJ stand.

"No," Crowley barked over the music. "This is supposed to be inspiration for the most diabolical among us! Not some pithy glurge fest!"

"But—" The Master protested.

"No buts. Something else!" Crowley shouted, making a nervous shrug as Voldemort stared coldly at him.

"As he says, _now_, Time Lord," The Dark Lord pressed, taking a slow sip of blood red wine from a fluted glass.

The Master grumbled as he switched soundtracks yet again.

"Carry on my wayward son—" The speakers now boomed.

"Oh, for the love of Hell!" Crowley shouted now, jumping up, face reddening rapidly. "What don't you get about decent music?! I am not listening to that drivel. Why, I might as well hang around those denim clad nightmares who so love pestering me on Earth! What good is this supposed 'Villains Club' if you lot are in charge of ambiance?! Class, this place has no class!"

The Master whimpered, pouting heavily now as he turned off this song as well.

"Enough!" A cold voice barked from across the room. Voldemort, Crowley turned to see, had stood from his stool, and was making his way over to them, the long black sleeves of his cloak wooshing through the air as he walked.

"You," He snarled, "have done quite enough for tonight. Now, unless next time you want to be the subject of a course in the use of the Cruciatus Curse, I'd suggest controlling yourself." The Dark Lord pointed his wand menacingly at The Master, who quivered ever so slightly under his gaze.

"Yes, yes of course, Your Darkness," the Time Lord muttered.

"And you, demon," he continued, turning now to Crowley, who was standing, slack-jawed at the display of dissatisfaction on the part of the usually impassive Dark Lord.

"Yes?" Crowley asked anxiously.

"You seem to have a better idea of appropriate arrangements for our little group. Next week, you will host us."

"Me?" Crowley asked.

"Yes. Anyone but him, really, but perhaps the setting of Hell will do us nicely for a change."

"Yes, yes, of course," Crowley stuttered nervously. "I will assure you, there won't be this nonsense to put up with..."


	3. Chapter 3: Welcome to Hell

Sorry it took forever. Anyhow, new characters this chapter! Note: Opal Koboi (since she's not quite as famous as the others, I don't suppose) is from Artemis Fowl. Been awhile since I read it (OK, more like 4 years, so I'm not positive I got her syntax right) but I tried to make it fun anyway.

...

The Next Friday:

Crowley glanced up when he heard the guttural growling of his Hellhound menagerie from where they were chained at their posts near the entry of the guest portal to Hell.

"Wonderful," he said to himself, standing as he heard the sharp knock at the door.

He answered it, pulling it open by the opulent gold handles he'd had affixed for the occasion to see the visitors.

There stood the pallid, lean form of the Dark Lord at the head of the gaggle of guests.

"I trust your hosting this week shall be most satisfactory," Voldemort intoned.

"Yes, of course it shall," Crowley asserted with a measure of his usual swagger despite the cold presence of the Dark Lord in his doorway. "Come in. I'll give you the tour first, then we can start the evening." He waved the group inside, noting the tall, thin woman with uruly, dark hair and mussed though once fancy black dress who came in second.

"I don't believe we've met," he frowned, nodding to her.

"No, we have not. I am Bellatrix Lestrange," she said haughtily. "His Lordship extended the untold privilege of inviting me tonight. " Bellatrix indicated Voldemort with a tilt of her head, a smile forming on her gaunt face.

"Indeed," Voldemort cut in, his tone as ever cool and composed, the silky edge hiding the unspoken threat, "I trust her presence here shall pose no undue inconvenience."

"No, no, of course not," Crowley replied quickly, shaking his head, the uneasiness lilting in his voice. "Any friend of Your Darkness is welcome to dine with us here in Hell."

"_She_ is _merely_ an _associate_," Voldemort corrected without so much as looking up.

"I could not deign to assume so high a role as friendship," Bellatrix confirmed, staring at the impassive Dark Lord with what Crowley could only take for some strange sort of longing. "For none is so equal to him. I am but a loyal servant to His Darkness."

"O-of course," Crowley murmured, struggling to keep his tone even. "And, who are the rest of you? That is, if you don't mind introducing yourselves?" He asked, addressing the handful of others who had come in the door behind the first two.

'I am Opal Koboi of Koboi Enterprises," declared a tiny dark-haired woman who stared up at him with intense, chocolate colored eyes. He stared back at her with a combination of fascination and incredulity. She had a commanding presence indeed, he decided, at least for a woman barely two feet tall.

"Forgive the intrusion," he scoffed, "But what, for the love of Hell, are you?"

"_I_ am a Pixie," she snapped, giving him a disgruntled look. "You really don't need to be so racist. Augh, demons! Leave the classlessness to you, of course. I hope the rest of the night is not so untoward. " She finished with a sniff.

"Oh, I'm sure wherever you're from, Thumbalina, you're the queen. But around here you're in Hell, in _my house_, so you will mind your tone," Crowley returned sharply.

"Oh, so sorry to intrude," an infuriatingly familiar voice cut in from behind the absurdly small Pixie, "But perhaps you'd like to show us the rest of your demonic domain?"

Crowley glowered at The Master, who had spoken.

"Yes, of course." He said, managing a civil but cool tone as Voldemort gave him a silent, yet utterly menacing look, which despite the lack of spoken word, he could read easily as, "Do settle down, or we shall see how demons respond to the Cruciatus Curse."


End file.
